


Five Year Plan

by MaskoftheRay



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Bruce Has Issues, Bruce and Clark are best friends, Bruce is Bi, Bruce is drunk, Clark is gay, Crack, Cute, Drunken Confessions, Drunken Shenanigans, Five year plan, Fluff and Angst, Humor, M/M, Sad Batman, Superbat!, bruce is lonely, dialogue only, experimental fic, this fic is based off a poem I read
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-28
Updated: 2018-09-28
Packaged: 2019-07-18 13:12:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16119194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaskoftheRay/pseuds/MaskoftheRay
Summary: Bruce is reading old poetry in Spanish to practice his language skills one night and finds a piece that affects him. He gets drunk and Alfred calls Clark to come deal with the situation. The two discuss things and Bruce proposes a five year plan: if we're both still single then, we'll go on a date. Call Clark crazy, but it doesn't seem like that bad of an idea...





	Five Year Plan

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own these characters, DC Comics does. As I said in the tags, this is an experimental fic. Sounds outside the " " are background noises. Hope it makes sense!

“Hn. Clark? What’re you doin’ here?” 

“Alfred called and said he didn’t want to be in charge of you anymore. Said you were, and I quote, ‘Out of your tree, and I will not be responsible for any damages done to the cave, or to Master Bruce.’ So I’m here… do you want to talk?” 

“… no. You can go— go tell Alfred that nobody ‘s outta their tree.” 

“I don’t know, Bruce. You look pretty rough right now. With the one glove, half a bat-suit, and the purple eyeliner.” 

“DAMNIT! I told Stephanie not to leave that around… shut up, Clark.” 

“heh. Sorry. I always did wonder if you put eyeliner on… guess I have my answer. You sure you don’t want to talk?” 

“Phhf. No. Leave me alone.” 

“…” 

“…” 

“… _Bruce_.” 

“ _Clark_.” 

“Ugh! Fine. I don’t know why I bother. I’ll just go tell Alfred that you’re liable for your own actions. If you destroy the computer, it’s none of my business. I’ll go.” 

Stomp, stomp, stomp. 

“Rr. Fine! Claarrrkk! Claaarrkk, come back! Clark? I’m sorry!” 

Thud. 

“Ow.” 

Whoosh. 

“Bruce! Are you okay?” 

“Goddamnit! Let me go! I’m fine. I just… miscalculated where the floor was.” 

“Right. How much did you have to drink, exactly?” 

“It wasn’t _that_ much!” 

“Mm hm. Right. Anyway, you were apologizing before you… tripped?” 

“Urgh. Fine. Yes, I’m sorry, Clark. I don’t always mean to be a jerk.” 

“Okay then. Now, are you going to tell me what this is really about?” 

“Don’t laugh.” 

“I won’t. Promise.” 

“Don’t.” 

“OKAY!” 

“Hm. It’s about… poetry.” 

“Poetry.” 

“Poetry.” 

“See! You’re laughing!” 

“No! No I’m not. I’m just… confused. You got drunk because of _poetry_ Bruce? What were you reading?” 

“Love poetry.” 

“What?” 

“You heard me.” 

“Ok… but why?” 

“I was practicing my Spanish. Reading Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz— old Spanish-language poetry. If you can analyze it, it helps with language comprehension and reasoning—" 

“I don’t need to learn a language, Bruce. Tell me what happened.” 

“Well fine. But the next time you want something translated, you’ll have to go to someone else.” 

“Okay, I’m sorry. But, you were saying?” 

“Hmph. Fine. I was saying that I was reading old Spanish-language poetry. By Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz. And I read this one poem, “Love Opened a Mortal Wound” and it got me thinking…” 

“Okay. So you read a poem. How did we get here?” 

“Clark. You don’t get it. It was the poem.” 

“The poem? A _poem_ got you like this?” 

“Forget it.” 

“No! Wait, I’m sorry. It’s just… I’m confused. As to why you’re drunk at 6pm on a Thursday night. Over a poem.” 

“Very well, I’ll _explain_.” 

“Thank you.” 

“Hh. Well, it’s that, for some reason, this one stuck with me. It felt especially relevant this week. Stacy and I broke up.” 

“Stacy?” 

“Oh my god, Clark. You’re a journalist. I need to hire better reporters.” 

“Shut up.” 

“Heh. Stacy was my… girlfriend.” 

“Oh, yeah! Blonde, tall, skinny. Likes pink?” 

“That was Stella.” 

“Oh. Right. Sorry.” 

“No problem… anyway, Stacy and I broke up.” 

“But… I thought you weren’t—” 

“I wasn’t.” 

“Then why—” 

“It still hurts to end a relationship. It’s another name on the list of ‘Waynetts,’ another article about how ‘Billionaire Bruce Wayne is Single Again,” or “Why Can’t Brucie Keep a Girl?”” 

“Oh.” 

“Yeah.” 

“So… it wasn’t _really_ the poem?” 

“No.” 

“But it made you think about things.” 

“Yes.” 

“And so your response was to get drunk.” 

“N— well, yes. I guess. Since we’re here.” 

Sigh. “Bruce. You can’t do this every time you have a feeling.” 

Groan. “I know Clark! But… it’s just. I’m alone. I’ll always be alone. All my relationships end in disaster. And when I actually do care for them, it’s even worse. Andrea. Selina. Talia. Silver. Viki—” 

“Bruce, I get it. You’re lonely. And that sucks, and I’m sorry about that. But that doesn’t make this okay. Or explain how a poem got you here.” 

“Ugh. Fine. I’ll read it to you.” Thud. “Damnit. The floor keeps moving.” 

“Do you need help?” 

“No. Let me just—” thud. 

“Sure?” 

“Fine. I hate you.” 

“Alright. One, two, three.” 

“Thanks.” 

“Yeah. Now where are we going?” 

“The library.” 

“Okay.” 

… 

Ding. 

“It should still be out on the reading table. Little leather book.” 

“Oh, yeah here it is.” 

“So… do you still want me to read it. Or?” 

“Fine. You don’t have to. Here, just sit on the couch. I’ll read it.” 

“Thanks, Clark.” 

“Hm.” 

… 

… 

“Oh.” 

“Get it now?” 

“Yeah. I guess.” 

“Thought so.” 

“…” 

“What?” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Thanks.” 

“You know, I’m single too. I get it. It sucks.” 

“Yeah.” 

“I wish I could find the right person.” 

“I know. It doesn’t help when half your dates have to be kept secret, either.” 

“Uh. What?” 

“Oh, when I go out with guys.” 

“WHAT?” 

“Don’t tell me you’re a bigot, Clark!” 

“NO! No, no, no. I’m just confused.” 

“Heh. Well, you see, sometimes boys like boys, and girls like—” 

“No, not about _that_. I didn’t know you were gay.” 

“I’m not.” 

“But—” 

“I’m Bi.” 

“Oh... did you know that... _I’m_ gay?” 

“Yeah.” 

Smack. “OW! What the hell, Clark!” 

“You asshole! You knew and you didn’t tell me?” 

“What the fuck? Why would I do that? It’s none of my business.” 

“Well, I wouldn’t have had to worry about how to tell you, first of all!” 

“… you were going to come out to me?” 

“YEAH! Of course. You’re one of my best friends.” 

“…” 

“Bruce? You okay?” 

“Goddamnit, Clark!” 

“Are you crying?” 

“No.” 

“You are… sorry I hit you.” 

Sniff. “It’s fine. You know…” 

“What?” 

“If we’re both single in five years—” 

“OH NO! This is a bad idea. You’re drunk.” 

“No, hear me out! We get along. You know my secret identity, I know yours. You’ve already met Alfred, and I’ve met your parents. My kids adore you. Our insane schedules wouldn’t be a problem. There’d be no lying, no going behind one another’s backs… why not?” 

“… That’s. That’s—" 

“Not actually a bad plan? See. I’m right. I’m always right.” 

“I was going to say, that’s crazy. And you’re drunk.” 

“It’s not! If it is crazy, tell me that you honestly weren’t considering it just now.” 

“… fine.” 

“See?” 

“Okay, it does make… a certain amount of sense. I’ll give you that.” 

“But?” 

“But… well, there is one problem.” 

“What? What is it?” 

“I haven’t told them.” 

“Who? What?” 

“My parents.” 

“Are they going to judge you for being gay?!” 

“Bruce, I’m literally an alien and you think they’re gonna have a problem with my sexuality?” 

“Well, they are traditional, and midwestern.” 

Smack. “OW! What was that for?” 

“For stereotyping my parents!” 

“Sorry. Well, if that’s not it then what _is_ the problem?” 

“If I tell them I’m gay, they’re going to expect _Superman_ to come out too.” 

“… oh.” 

“Yeah.” 

“Well, my offer still stands. If, in five years, we’re both still single, take me on a date. That’s all I’m asking, Clark.” 

“If I say yes, are you going to remember this in the morning?” 

“No, probably not. But I’ll do my damnedest.” 

“Ha. Ok then.” 

“Is that a yes?” 

“… yes.” 

“Alright then. Now we wait, I guess…” 

“…” 

“Clark?” 

“Yes, Bruce?” 

“Thanks.” 

“You’re welcome.” 

**FIVE YEARS LATER…**

Knock knock knock. “One minute!” 

Thud. Thud. Thud. “Oops!” Creak. “… Bruce! Hi! Sorry, there’s—” 

“For someone with super-reflexes, you sure are clumsy. Here, let me—” 

Rustle. Rustle. Thud. “Oh. Thanks. You didn’t have to pick up all the magazines.” 

“Sure I did. I just don’t know why you have so many.” 

“It’s for work! I need to stay caught up on the latest writing trends, and see what people are talking about!” 

“So you say every time. Wouldn’t it be better to buy a digital subscription?” 

Gasp! “You’ve gone too far!” 

“Oh, that’s right. You work in print media.” 

“Did you just… was that a _joke_?” 

“… no comment.” 

“Ok… now I really have to know. Why are you here?” 

“Our date.” 

“W-what? I don’t think we scheduled a meet—” 

“No, Clark. _Our_. _Date_.” 

“Wha—” 

“Ugh, fine. If you’re going to be dense about it, I’ll jog your memory. Five years ago, you agreed to go out on a date with me if we were both single in five years. That agreement was made five years, one day, and… six hours ago. So, are you going to keep your word, _boy scout_?” 

“You told me you wouldn’t remember that! You were drunk! HOW DID YOU REMEMBER THAT?” 

“I wrote it down on my calendar.” 

“Oh.” 

“So… I take it that’s a no on the date then…” 

Tap tap tap. Whoosh. “Clark?” 

“Wait, Bruce. I— I wasn’t saying ‘no.’” 

"Oh?” 

“In fact… I think I’d like to say ‘yes.’” 

“ _Oh_.” 

Slam. Thud. Crash. Rustle. Rip. 

**Author's Note:**

> For those who are curious, here's the poem this is based off of. Translated by Joan Larkin and Jamie Manrique. Poem is by Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz. Titled, "Love Opened a Mortal Wound."
> 
> "Love opened a mortal wound.  
> In agony, I worked the blade  
> to make it deeper. Please,  
> I begged, let death come quick.
> 
> Wild, distracted, sick,  
> I counted, counted  
> all the ways love hurt me.  
> One life, I thought— a thousand deaths.
> 
> Blow after blow, my heart  
> couldn't survive this beating.  
> Then— how can I explain it?
> 
> I came to my senses. I said,  
> Why do I suffer? What lover  
> ever had so much pleasure?"


End file.
